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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27347338">From Estonia with Love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_beasty/pseuds/sea_beasty'>sea_beasty</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Multi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:27:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,724</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27347338</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_beasty/pseuds/sea_beasty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Civil War, the Avengers are fractured. For the first time since the fall of the Soviet Union, Natasha's exterior life mirrors the rift inside of her. SHEILD is gone. Clint, Fury, and Maria are gone. Fleeing to provincial Estonia, Team Cap must protect a mob-run city that is their final refuge from the clutches of international law.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I, Natasha Romanoff,</p><p>
  <em>I, Natalia Romanova,</em>
</p><p>solemnly swear to tell the truth,</p><p>
  <em>solemnly swear to love my Motherland dearly,</em>
</p><p>the whole truth,</p><p>
  <em>live, study, and struggle</em>
</p><p>and nothing but the truth,</p><p>
  <em>and to hold sacred the</em>
</p><p>so help me</p><p>
  <em>Laws of the Pioneers of the</em>
</p><p>God.</p><p>
  <em>great Lenin.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. July 2016</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The smell of unwashed socks and leather polish was starting to wear on Natasha. </p><p>Don’t get her wrong. Steve’s contact in Estonia—the daughter of an old war buddy who’s defected from the Soviet Army in ’43 and joined the U.S. infantry in time for the Battle of the Bulge—had been nothing but accomodating. She’d offered her upstairs flat rent-free to the three of them in exchange for negotiating on her behalf with the Russian mob. This was a task Natasha was uniquely qualified for. In the end, all it took was kidnapping a bookkeeper, arranging his extradition to Russia for fraud and conspiracy, and blackmailing an arsonist to turn the local gang shelter into torchwood. You can’t be a genetically enhanced, accessory to treason, former super-spy without developing a sense of pride in bad jobs done well, she thought, admiring the blaze form a distant rooftop.</p><p>However, Natasha knew it was only a matter of time until Mrs Helle Pärn, their host and landlady, accidentally let slip that her houseguests were fugitive American superheroes, and for that reason, she kept her bags packed and her eyes peeled. But for the time being, things were good. Exceeding expectations, even. They had running water, and clean, sweet-smelling linen. Mrs P ran a pagariäri (bakery), so when the downstairs windows were shuttered, the flat was filled with the smell of icing sugar. Sometimes Mrs P came upstairs for tea and a chat, and put homemade pastries in the pantry when the boys weren’t looking.</p><p>Their flat had two bedrooms, a tiny en suite, and a kitchenette with a bright yellow four-piece patio dining set. The walls were approaching ten feet high, but all the light fixtures were oyster-shaped ceiling lights that only illuminated a distance of about five feet, making every room just about as dark as if there were no lights on in the first place. It was abundantly clear this apartment was the repository for furniture Mrs Pärn’s full-time home had outgrown—overall, totally unsuitable for spy work. Just the other day, Sam spilled half a container of pandan chicken takeaway on a bunch of highly sensitive case files. They had to laminate Zemo’s caller history to keep bits of creamy sauce off it. There was simply no space to work outside of the small patio set that had been migrated indoors, and square-footage of tabletop wasn’t the only thing in short supply. </p><p>Estonia wasn’t known for its supermarkets. The nearest R-Kiosk stocked more beer and cider than ready meals and no one could find dishwashing tablets. Hence the permeating smell of unwashed socks and dirty linen. Of course the thing able to threaten the union of a super-solider, a paramilitary flight specialist, and an enhanced Cold War spy would be chores. Besides washing powder, they were experiencing a shortage on nonprescription drugs, toilet paper, ammunition, and banana chips—the latter simply didn’t exist in Eastern Europe, and Natasha was starting to experience withdrawal symptoms. </p><p>Steve, sensing the supply drought days before Natasha and Sam, had reverted to his Depression headspace and started conserving everything from the waterproof spray for their costumes, to water. Natasha, who was suppressing the same instincts, forced him to reign it in when she found him installing stoppers inside the kitchen tap to reduce flow.</p><p>“Steve. We need to talk.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Winter 1933</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Natasha climbed up onto the toilet seat and sat on the tank, drawing her knees up to her chin. Although the smell of sweat and urine hung like a mist at her level she would not be deterred. Through a gap in the stall door, she saw shadows passing to and fro in front of an electric lamp. The restroom lay on the periphery of the compound, allowing a tiny window to trickle fresh mountain air into the corridor - this was the only place soldiers on patrol could talk and smoke beyond the reach of Headmistresses' hawklike surveillance.</p><p>Every evening, Natasha was marched there to shower and clean her wounds. Her size-2 Mary Janes were not in the last bit insulated, but she could fiddle with the buckle while she waited. She pulled the strap tighter and tighter until her feet started to swell, then just when the pressure felt like a tourniquet around her neck - she released the catch, sending the the buckle sliding back down the end of the strap and the fuchsia draining from her ankles. </p><p>Sometimes, if she was very quiet, her chaperone would get talking with the other soldiers - and if she was quieter still, she could stay in the stall and listen to the radio. Even the most dedicated comrade could occasionally be distracted by Moscow Radio and Red Room gossip. The radio whined as one of the guards turned up the volume. </p><p>A voice said, “How would you describe famine in the villages?”</p><p>“Well, there is no famine”</p><p>The interviewer stuttered, but his guest doubled down. "The present hunger is temporary. In writing books you must have a longer view. It would be difficult to describe what is happening it as hunger.” <br/>Natasha liked the radio man. He spoke like he’d never told a lie in his life, and if he did, no one would be alive to tell about it. One of the soldiers thumped the top of the radio with approval. </p><p>“It’s a ruse. They just want back into the fold.”</p><p>“Even if the Motherland showed mercy, we don’t have the resources to rescue a foreign peasantry.” </p><p>Natasha’s chaperone spoke up, “I heard in Ukraine they eat their children and their old folks.”</p><p>“Their defeat will be a proud addition to the history books,” replied the first man. The radio squealed and Natasha jumped, narrowly avoiding slipping off the tank. She pulled herself together and flushed, pulling the door closed behind her.</p><p>Thirty-four years and 7,500 kilometres away, Natasha found out that the interviewee was ham-faced Foreign Minister Litvinov, who shielded Stalin from international criticism over the Ukrainian famine while pursuing diplomatic relations with both Britain and France. Recalling the radio memory, she felt a rare sting of pride for her young self. Her instinct for detecting savvy political players was acute, even then.</p><p>Natasha defected in 1967.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. May 2016</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Iridescent waves raced by as the helicopter picked up speed to make the final ascent. It wasn’t often Natasha rode in the back seat of any vehicle, but this operation required character work. The pilot radioed in.</p><p>“Raft Tower, helicopter 727KP, requesting permission to land.”</p><p>“Helicopter 727KP, state your purpose.”</p><p>“Miss Doyle, Ross’ assistant- ” the pilot turned in his seat to look quizzically at Natasha and she fought the urge to adjust the photostatic veil.</p><p>“I’m here to pick up some of Mr Ross’… personal affects,” she simpered. Natasha’s secretary wardrobe from the Stark Industries infiltration in ’10 had long since disappeared into a charity bin.Her skirt and blazer were brand new and chafing against her shoulder holster.</p><p>The pilot cleared his throat, “Ross’ PA here for a personal matter.” There was a pregnant pause.</p><p>“Roger. 727KP, cleared to land on runway three.”</p><p>Ross was not open about it; he couldn’t be, not after Betty’s passing was so publicised, but complacency strikes when men are happy. A slice of his distinctive silver coif made it into a pouting Instagram model’s story during her Bali vacation and Natasha zeroed in. A facial scan was downloaded from the same picture, and vocal samples pulled from a lengthy phonecall gave Natasha enough material to complete her imitation. It ceased to amaze her years ago, but Steve was staggered such a small sample of digital data, in experienced hands, could be used to duplicate a living, breathing person. The imitation game was never Natasha’s strongest suit, but with new clothes, perfume, and the most high-tech piece of digital mesh in the western hemisphere—suddenly, the stranger in the bathroom mirror put on a smile, and repeated her name in a voice not her own.</p><p>“<em>Alexandrea Doyle</em>.”</p><p>The helicopter landed and Natasha snuck a glance at her reflection in the side of the helicopter - she was wearing the face of a fairly pretty girl, with eyes slanted like a cats’, making her whole head seem narrower than it was.</p><p>“This way, ma’am.” At security, she made a show of taking off her earrings and dizzying black pumps while the EMP embedded in her earpiece made quick work of the metal detector. Her burly ex-SHEILD operative escorted her to the elevator and as the doors slid shut, she gave him a shy smile and a wave. If it came to blows, his boner could mean the difference between capture and success. The elevator spat her out on the administrative level. Every corridor was like the inside of a shipping container, a suffocating deep-sea grey that made the staff feel just as welcome as the prisoners. She inhaled sharply and the smell remained her of the tobacco-flavoured subterranean vapour they passed off as ‘air’ in the Red Room. Not the hardwood mansion she spent her twenties in: the original training facilities buried deep beneath Moscow.</p><p>Natasha shook her head to loosen the memories. She had a job to do.</p><p>Ross’ office was a cold, concrete affair distinguished only from the average holding cell by the existence of two desks at opposite ends of the room, one with a teetering in-tray and a spread of expensive creams and bottles. Natasha beelined toward the mile-high in-tray and plugged a USB stick into Alexandrea’s desktop computer. The PC had access to the Raft’s operations server without the extra security installed on Ross’ ageing Dell. Then she took out her phone and texted an unknown number:</p><p>
  <em> It’s go time ;) </em>
</p><p>A minute later, she received:</p><p>
  <em>OK.</em>
</p><p>She expanded the tab containing the life CCTV feed to watch Steve swap his janitorial coveralls for security blues and stride down darkened halls into the holding cells. At a steel-bracketed gate, he paused, looked into the camera on the ceiling, and offered a small smile. Natasha smiled back and opened the gate with a keystroke.</p>
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